Riddles Worth Solving
by MissNerdyWings
Summary: After a young girl vanishes from an abandoned flat on the outskirts of London, Sherlock Holmes and his best friend, John Watson, are thrust into a situation they never could have expected. Light language. Johnlock. Guaranteed ParentLock.
1. Chapter 1: The Girl

**The inspiration is flowing! I quite like writing Sherlock :) Warning: There will be violence, scary circumstances, and hints at Johnlock (no actual relationship). Maxine if of my own creation, and this story should not spoil any of Sherlock. But I will let you know if it does. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any brands, businesses, or any other such thing I may mention in this story.**

**Author's Note: I love reviews, and constructive criticism is always welcome. Also, if you have any ideas for later chapters, I would very much like to hear those as well. Let me know if you find an error so I can fix it and if you feel like I'm taking them out of character I would like to know. :) Thank you for reading, and enjoy!**

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"I don't understand. Why do you want me for a mysterious 911 call?" Sherlock Holmes marched around his flat, phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder. His nimble fingers were unwinding a complicated knot on a line of rope, his eyebrows knit in concentration. His friend and partner, John Watson, sat in an armchair by the small fireplace, typing in a post to his blog about their latest case. It was around 7 o'clock, and Sherlock was on the phone with Greg Lestrade, a detective.

"Because, Sherlock," said Lestrade tiredly. He was getting tired of persuading Sherlock to go on cases. "It's hard to explain over the phone. But you will want this one, I promise."

Sherlock sighed, dropping his rope, grabbing his phone with his hand.

"Give me the address."

Twenty minutes later, John and Sherlock arrived via a cab at the address Lestrade had given them. It was a small flat on the outskirts of London. Police cars were parked in clusters, lights flashing. Detectives milled about, and crime-scene tape blocked off the entire area.

Sherlock slipped under the tape without hesitation, John at his heels. Donovan glared at Mr. Holmes as he walked in. John nodded at her politely, and tried to ignore the death glare Anderson was giving them.

Greg Lestrade waited inside of the flat. It was one room in all. There was no bathroom or kitchen or any other sort of thing in sight. From the outside, the flat looked like it housed nothing more than dirt and garbage, abandoned long ago, but the second you walked through the door it was as though you stood in a nice house in the suburbs.

"Well, that's odd," remarked John.

"Very," Lestrade agreed.

The room looked like it belonged to a messy teenager girl. The walls were soft purple, the carpet dull white. There was a small bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, and a book shelf. The floor was littered with papers, food wrappers, clothes, and miscellaneous items of no meaning. The bed had simple sheets and a nice comforter with plenty of pillows.

Sherlock's green eyes raked the entire scene, catching every detail of the room.

"What've you got?" Lestrade asked after a few minutes of silence.

"She's around 15. She's a writer. Very smart but disorganized. Tall, with dark hair. She likes music but dislikes people. She works systematically. She has nice clothes but doesn't care too much on how she wears them. She comes from quite a bit of money but is on the run. She knows her way around machines and computers and is a pickpocket as well. She's been here for about a month. She's looking for someone important. Someone she's been chasing for sometime. She's from America, but she knows her way around London, which indicates she's been in London longer than a month, but has moved around. She was being followed, watched. She was trying to slip under someone's nose unnoticed. Clearly, it didn't work."

"Bloody brilliant," breathed John.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, smiling slightly.

"That's quite nice," said Anderson, leaning against the doorway. "But do you have anything that could actually help us find out who she is?"

"Like I said, she's smart. She knew she was going to be taken. She left us clues." Sherlock moved towards the chest of drawers. Every drawer was open, spilling out t-shirts and other personal things. The top held a small oval mirror and was also quite cluttered. In a small smile sat a stack of nail clippings, a brush, a clump of dark hair, a cotton swab, and a bit of what looked like blood. The mirror had a large hand print on it as well. "She's left us everything we need to find out who she is."

"Brilliant," said Lestrade gratefully. "That saves me hours of searching."

"You didn't even ask me how I knew it all," Sherlock noted, hands in the pockets of his overcoat as he looked about the room.

"I learned that I don't need to anymore," said Lestrade simply. He dialed a number into his phone, bringing it to his ear. He gave a small wave to the men, then exited the room. He had other things to take care of besides converse with Sherlock Holmes about his incredible mind.

"Well, that was quick," said John.

"Very quick," said Sherlock softly. He ran his hands over the chest of drawers softly, examining the contents of the drawers. He peered out the door to see if anyone was watching them. Deciding the coast was clear, he crouched down to the floor, gathering up a few notebooks and clusters of paper.

"What are you doing?" asked John.

"Getting some of her writing," Sherlock said, like it was obvious.

"Why are you doing that?"

"So that I can find her."

Sherlock stuffed the papers into his pockets, hiding the notebook in his overcoat. He stood, acting as though nothing had happened.

"You're incredibly odd, you know that?" said John.

"Yes of course. I'm told daily. Now, let's go. I think Anderson is going to shoot me."

When they arrived back at the flat, John made tea, and Sherlock sat down for a reading session. After an hour, John went to bed, but Sherlock did not. In fact, Sherlock never went to sleep that entire night. He was too busy reading the tiny scrawls of a girl he didn't even know the name of, entranced in her stories.

The next morning John woke up at around 9:30am, only to find Sherlock had fallen asleep mid-story. His head rested on the coffee table and he snored softly.

"Such an idiot," John grumbled. He tried to wake Sherlock up, but his friend was too stubborn, even in sleep. So, John arranged him on the couch as comfortably as possible, spread a blanket over him, and then went to the grocery store.

Sherlock woke up at around noon to the sound of his brother making tea in the kitchen.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock moaned, his eyes not even open yet.

"We need to talk, Sherlock. I know where you went last night."

Sherlock's eyes flashed open.

"You know about the girl?"

"Oh yes." Mycroft walked over, holding a tray with a tea-pot and two delicate china cups. "I know all about Maxine Riddle."

"Do tell."

"Now is not the time, Sherlock. I only came to tell you to back off. This case is none of your concern, and I don't need you poking your snoopy nose into it!" Mycroft glared at his younger brother menacingly. He sat in the arm-chair across from Sherlock, placing the tray on the table in between and sipping his tea.

"Because he always bends to you, Mycroft," said John sarcastically, walking through the front door.

"He has a point," said Sherlock, his lips pulling into a wicked grin.

Mycroft ignored their jabs.

"Lestrade will be coming in exactly ten minutes to tell you something. No matter what it is, tell him you aren't interested. This situation is none of your business and you stepping in will only make things worse. The consequences of your involvement are far greater than you think."

Sherlock stared at the back wall of the flat for a moment, lips pursed and mind racing. His green eyes were slightly squinted and his fingers tapped a song against his leg.

After a moment, he spoke.

"Yes. Whatever you say, Mycroft. You know best." Sherlock's eyes locked on his older brother. There was no expression on his face, his eyes slightly widened and his head cocked to the side.

Mycroft was struck dumb, as was John.

Sherlock continued staring. It was unnerving. Mycroft blinked a few times, regaining his composure. He stood, brushing his suit with his hands absently.

"It's nice to see you have some common sense for once. Behave yourself, brother." Mycroft nodded at John politely.

John glared back.

Mycroft sighed, muttering something that sounded like a string of condescending verbal abuse as he walked away.

The door to the flat clicked shut and Sherlock snapped to his feet.

"Fetch your coat," he said, looping his scarf around his neck.

John's face flooded with relief.

"You aren't giving in to Mycroft."

Sherlock snorted, meeting John's eyes.

"Never."

John laughed and grabbed his coat. They opened the door just as Lestrade was lifting his fist to knock.

"Ah, Lestrade. What have you found?"

Lestrade huffed with an air of frustration, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"This case is unbelievable," he groaned. "But I can't explain it all here. I just came to fetch you. All I can say is that you'll want to be sitting down."

Sherlock and John exchanged looks, confusion and uncertainty both faces.

"What are we sitting around for?" Sherlock said.

The three men headed to the chilly street. Lestrade hopped in his police car and then men followed in a cab, setting off for the station. They rode in silence, Sherlock's entire mind focused on the stories he'd been reading all night long. This girl, Maxine Riddle, had told him through fantastical stories of exactly what had happened to her, from start to finish. Sherlock knew what Lestrade was going to tell him, and it was hard, even for Sherlock, to wrap his head around the matter.

Maxine Riddle, the 15-year-old from America was, somehow, impossibly, Sherlock's daughter.


	2. Chapter 2: Hidden Pages

**Hello readers! Seeing as people are viewing I'm going to keep posting chapters. :) No, this is not a crossover, I just felt the need to include a small nod at another one of my shows ahaha. I do not own Bones nor Sherlock. I hope you enjoy! Happy reading :)**

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When they arrived at the station, Lestrade took them in his office for privacy.

"What have you uncovered?" Sherlock asked, sitting down. He sat forward, putting every bit of his attention into what Lestrade was about to say.

Lestrade sighed, plopping down in his chair. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He'd been up all night, reading the results of the tests and the files of the investigation. They'd called in a few connections they had in the US and they'd worked in correlation in discovering who this girl was and what her significance was. The second they'd contacted a small lab in Maine and had analyzed the evidence and files, the FBI stepped in and the case had been given to the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington DC. They'd gone over every inch of the evidence with precision and Lestrade had received the results that morning at via fax.

Lestrade had nearly fainted.

"Lestrade, are all you alright? You look a little pale." John Watson looked at the detective with concern.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. It's been a late night. Anyway, I don't really think I can properly explain, so here are two copies of the case files." Lestrade pulled out two manila packages from his desk, handing one to John and one to Sherlock. "Read through them. I'm going to get a cup of coffee."

Half an hour later the men were finished, and they were at a loss for words. Lestrade sat at his desk, sipping his third cup of coffee.

"Well?" he asked, looking at the two expectantly.

"This is impossible. They must have made a mistake," said John, slamming the file shut.

"There is so mistake. The Jeffersonian is the best out there. They don't mess up."

"How the hell could Sherlock have a daughter?" John barked. "Especially one so old."

Lestrade sighed. "I have no idea."

Sherlock remained silent, staring at the wall, deep in thought.

"It's not in there, but according to the tests, she also has some of your DNA, John. Here's a photo." Lestrade pulled a picture from his desk, pushing it towards the angry doctor.

A pretty young girl smiled up at John. She had long, curly, dark hair and striking green eyes. She had Sherlock's cheek bones and nose but John's smile and ears. She had a mischievous look in her eyes- the same one Sherlock got when he got a brilliant idea.

"She's beautiful," John said softly. The longer he looked at the child, the more he felt something tugging at him, pulling at his heart-strings. It was a pull he could only describe as paternal.

"This is ridiculous. John and I could never have a child, nor have we tried. It's impossible," said Sherlock. John felt his face turn warming violently. "Nor have I even been to the United States or been with any woman from there."

John nodded, trying to hide the flush of his cheeks.

"I know. I believe you. I don't know how this is possible," said Lestrade. "But it is, and this girl, Maxine, is out there right now, and we need to find her to get to the bottom of this."

Sherlock fell silent again, staring at the wall, thinking.

"Ah ha! Stupid, stupid!" he yelled, snapping to his feet. "How did I miss this?"

"What is it Sherlock?" asked John, standing.

"We need to go back to Baker Street, then to the flat where we found her. Now! Lestrade, get your team ready," said Sherlock quickly, practically bouncing from excitement.

"Sherlock, what do you have?" Lestrade asked, shoving away his desk chair.

"I'll tell you when we get there! Come on, John," he cried, dashing out the door.

John shrugged at Lestrade as if to say: "What can you do?"

Lestrade sighed, waving him away. "I'll see you in a moment.

Sherlock ran into the flat like a madman, grabbing the papers he'd fallen asleep on last night. He gathered them up into a pile in his arms and was running out the door again before John could even get out of the cab.

Sherlock leapt back into the car, barking an address at the cabbie.

"Sherlock, what did you discover?" John asked as they sped through London.

"The girl, John. Maxine. She gave me all the answers. I just wasn't paying enough attention. I knew she was, somehow, my offspring the second I finished the first page of her story. I just didn't know how. But I missed a few pages. They are still in the flat, hidden. She didn't want anyone to find her secret, so she hid them in such a manner that only I could find them. John, she is trying to tell us exactly what happened to her, and where she is. I know how she got here, I know why, but I don't know why she was being held or how she came to be. Those pages will tell me exactly what I need to know."

"She was being held?"

"Yes! Haven't you been listening? She was held in a secret lab somewhere in the US."

"Sherlock, she's just a girl. This could just be a story from here head. She was probably scared."

"No, John, she's not just a girl. This isn't from her head. It is all real, 100%. She was held in a secret laboratory and-"

John cut Sherlock off. "Sherlock, this is insane! Why the hell would they have her in a lab? This reeks of conspiracy theories and fiction."

Sherlock was silent. He had an idea of why Maxine was being held. He was almost positive he knew the answer. But he would not tell John until he was sure.

They arrived at the flat a moment later. Sherlock barreled out of the car, leaving John to pay the cabbie. He shoved past the detectives without a thought, wanting only to reach the flat. Anderson yelped as Sherlock crushed his foot beneath his and Donovan cried out in annoyance when he nearly knocked her flat on her back. John gave the speedy apologies, which were received with icy glares, and rushed in after Sherlock.

"That was incredibly rude," John muttered, nudging Sherlock.

"I don't care, John," Sherlock said automatically. His eyes raked the flat, his hands twitching at his side.

John was about to speak again, but Sherlock shushed him, eyes closing.

"Will you hush?" Sherlock barked after a moment.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You're thinking. It's annoying."

John felt silent, glaring at Sherlock as stepped further into the flat.

His hands lifted, and he began doing the thing that John found so amazing. He pulled information from his brain like a computer, swiping it away with his hands if it displeased him, shaking his head to delete it. His left hand swiped information away while his right hand brought it up.

His eyes flashed open, and he grinned.

"Got it."

Sherlock flopped on his stomach and crawled beneath the small bed, His long arms reached out, pulling away a chunk of loose carpet, revealing a small hole in the ground, a wooden box inside. He pulled it out then shimmied out from beneath, the bed. Ignoring the amazed look from his friend, Sherlock twisted at the combination lock that held the box shut, and it clicked open after his first try. He opened the box, and found a small stack of papers folded carefully inside. A note sat atop them. Written in small, swirly handwriting, two words greeted him and he imagined the girl smiling as he read them.

Well done.

Sherlock flicked through the pages carefully, eyes reading every word. The longer he read, the stiffer he became, the whiter his knuckles as he clutched the paper.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked. Lestrade had entered the room, and he stood quietly in the corner, watching the men carefully.

Sherlock looked up from the pages, eyes burning in fury.

"We need to call Mycroft," he said coldly. "I'm going to kill him."


	3. Chapter 3: A Miserable Date

**Hello again readers! Sorry I've been so long. Water polo has consumed my life. **

**Anyway, I've really liked writing this story and your reviews are much appreciated. I hope you enjoy this next chapter! Don't forget to review :)**

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Mycroft was at the flat when they returned. He had made himself comfortable, sipping a cup of tea and eating crisps.

"I see your diet is going well," Sherlock remarked, stepping into 221B.

Mycroft paused, crumbs falling on his fancy jacket. He set the handful of crisps he'd been about to shove in his mouth on the table to his right. he said up and brushed the crumbs from his lap.

"Quite well," he said scathingly.

Sherlock smirked, and then his face grew dark, fury burning behind his green eyes.

"I'm done playing games, Mycroft." His voice was emotionless and slightly deeper this time. It was the same voice he'd used when those American's had hurt Mrs. Hudson. It sent chills up John's spine and the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees.

"What are you referring to?" Mycroft asked lightly.

John heard fear in his voice and saw it in his eyes.

"Don't play games with me. Don't ever think you are capable of that."

The words were like a growl.

Mycroft started to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I know everything, Mycroft. Don't bother lying. So drop the façade and tell me where she is." He loomed over his older brother.

The elder Holmes ignored his brother, grabbing his umbrella.

Realization flooded John's face, his thoughts falling into step with Sherlock's. A fiery range rushed through his body.

My croft was bustling to the door, trying to escape.

John's short arm flew out and he caught a fistful of Mycroft's jacket.

"Don't. You. Dare." John's eyes flashed.

"I would suggest you tell us where Maxine is, quickly." Sherlock couldn't hide his victorious smirk.

Mycroft yanked himself from John's grip, huffing indignantly.

"I don't know where she is. I'm trying to find her myself. There was a bit of a... erm... spat, and she vanished."

"You _lost _her?" John's voice was dangerously calm.

Sherlock's face was unreadable. His eyes studied Mycroft carefully.

Without a word, he marched past his brother and out the door. John followed without hesitation.

"Where is she?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer as he hailed a cab.

"Did she run away? Did she escape?" John pressed.

Sherlock took a deep breath as the cab pulled up.

"No. She was taken."

Sherlock opened the door to the cab, letting John in first. The doctor slid in and Sherlock went in after. The door slammed shut and Sherlock barked an address at the cabbie.

"Who took her?" John demanded, trying to extract any information he could from Holmes' brilliant mind.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and an expression John had never seen before crossed his face.

"Moriarty."

John's blood ran cold.

He sputtered, trying to form words. His heart faltered and his throat closed up and his hands felt like ice.

"Wha-why?"

"He knows. He's always known. He was just waiting to pounce."

Was that a quiver in Sherlock's voice?

The cab arrived at the address they'd given and the two men barreled out of the car.

The had arrived at a small diner nestled between two brick buildings.

Sherlock entered without hesitation while John paid their fee. Watson went as quickly as possible, not wanting Sherlock out of his site for too long.

He pulled open the glass door and a bell chimed. The diner smelled of hamburgers and coffee. An old TV in the far corner showed a popular soap opera with subtitles and soft music played. The white and black speckled tile floors looked freshly washed and the red vinyl booths gleamed. It seemed perfectly normal.

Except for the fact that there was no one there but John, Sherlock, and everyone's favorite serial killer in the farthest booth from the door.

"Hello, boys."

Sherlock stood a few feet from Jim's booth, shoulders tense. John hurried to his side, resisting the urge to strangle Moriarty right there and then.

"Sit, sit!" Moriarty chirped, patting the table with his hand.

Sherlock obliged, sliding in across from the crazy-eyed killer.

John slid in after. The booths were tiny, causing the two men to be pressed together tightly.

"I see you boys have finally admitted your feelings for each other! Such a beautiful daughter! Though I would say you should have gotten married first." Moriarty wagged a finger at them like they were naughty children. John looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his skull, but Sherlock remained impassive. Moriarty waited for a word from them. When they didn't reply, he continued speaking.

"It seems she already knows her fathers. She said she was looking for you! Such a sweet child. She has your brain, Sherlock, but John's heart. Although I must say she has quite the obnoxious scream."

Sherlock snapped. He lunged at Moriarty with an anger nobody knew he had, taking his fancy suit jacket into his fists. His face was livid and his arms trembled.

"Where. Is. She."

Moriarty cackled like the mad man he was, eyes glinting with a dangerous light.

"Don't ask me things you already know," he sneered. He reached into his pocket, quick as a flash, yanking out a black handgun and pressing it against John's forehead.

Sherlock stiffened in alarm and released his enemy.

"Much better!" Jim cooed, gun still firmly on John's skull. He checked his watch and frowned. "As much fun as this has been, I'm afraid I'll have to be off. Always a pleasure, boys! And don't my dumb my dear Sherly. You know exactly where precious Maxine is. Remember the clues!" Moriarty jumped to his feet and made his way to the door of the diner.

"Tata!" he sang, and then he was gone.


End file.
